


To the Limit

by ami_ven



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:48:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21557302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ami_ven/pseuds/ami_ven
Summary: Clint figures out each of the handlers’ limits, but he can’t seem to find Coulson’s.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Phil Coulson, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 225





	To the Limit

Contrary to appearances, Clint actually did know what he was doing.

He was rapidly gaining a reputation for insubordination and a bad attitude, but that was fine – Clint hadn’t joined SHIELD to make friends – if it got him results. And so far, it had.

In his experience, all people had limits – what they were willing to put up with, what really pissed them off – and the sooner he figured out exactly what those limits were, the better it was for everyone involved. Once Clint found each person’s boundaries, he could stay safely inside them. Of course, that meant that his first mission report from each new handler was basically a list of his most annoying habits, but afterwards, he knew where each senior agent’s lines were, and never crossed them again.

By the end of three missions with any handler, Clint knew exactly what they expected and how to run right up to those no-cross lines before he got to them. Hill, for example, hated chatter over the radio but didn’t mind his running commentary in person. Sitwell did not appreciate having his orders ignored or argued, but was willing to change his plan if Clint phrased the change as a choice for him to make. Woo had a surprisingly quirky sense of humor, but had a thing against Clint using his bow instead of a gun.

It was only Coulson that he couldn’t get a read on.

As far as Clint could tell, the man never got angry. Instead of ignoring the chatter over the comms or telling Clint to shut up, he responded with such deadpan humor that it startled the archer into laughing. He replied to the worst of Clint’s flirting with short, dry sentences that simultaneously implied _I’m not interested, Barton_ , and _I’m amused, keep going_. He accepted questions to his orders and always made Clint feel his suggestions were being seriously considered, even if Coulson decided against them.

In short, he was perfect, and Clint couldn’t help being suspicious. People who kept everything bottled up like that tended to explode, in his experience, and it was never pretty.

When Hill growled, “Shut up, Barton,” he knew she meant it, and kept quiet for at least half an hour afterwards. Sitwell had a squint to his left eye just as he was reaching the end of his patience, and Woo snapped “And that’s an order,” when he was done hearing arguments. Clint generally pushed right up to the edges of acceptable field behavior – he was an adrenaline junkie, he wouldn’t deny it – but he kept firmly on the inside of the lines he’d mapped out.

Except with Coulson.

Clint knew it was dangerous, actively _trying_ to make the man angry. Coulson was a top-level agent with the ear of the new director and a colorful backstory to go with it, and he could end Clint’s career in a heartbeat if he wanted to.

Only, he didn’t seem to want to.

In fact, Coulson kept requesting him for missions, to the point that he hardly worked with Hill or Sitwell or Woo anymore. And Clint still couldn’t find out what would make Coulson lose his cool. He got annoyed, sometimes, or disappointed, especially when gas station convenience stores didn’t have his favorite brand of powdered-sugar doughnuts. But that just made him look adorable, despite his crisp suit and badass attitude, and Clint tried very hard not to let himself keep thinking about that.

To distract himself, he started trying to see just how many of Coulson’s buttons he could push. On one mission, he refused to answer anything but “Yes, sir,” or “No, sir,” despite the other man trying to engage him in conversation. On the next, he kept up a stream of completely unrelated commentary, with no room for replies. On one, he questioned every order and suggestion his handler gave, and on the one after that, he accepted every order without comment.

Coulson didn’t even act like anything was different, and Clint tried not to take it personally – Coulson had done nothing but his best on every mission and it wasn’t his fault that dealing with Clint was just part of the job for him.

Then, just before they left for a mission in Belarus, Coulson caught his arm. “A word, Barton.”

“Sure, sir,” he said.

Coulson released him and took a step back. “I just want to be sure you know that you aren’t required to take missions with people who make you uncomfortable.”

Clint blinked. “O…kay,” he said, slowly.

Coulson frowned. “I’ve been requesting you for assignments, Barton, and maybe that was selfish of me, because you don’t seem comfortable with me as your handler.”

“What?” said Clint. “You’re the best handler I’ve ever worked with. And I will totally tell Sitwell I said that.”

The frown deepened. “Then the problem is personal.”

“No,” said Clint, quickly. “I mean, yes? Not _your_ person, sir, _my_ person. I just… it’s not you, I promise.”

The other man stared at him for a long moment. “Okay,” he said. “Wheels up in five.”

Clint nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Belarus was supposed to be an easy mission and for the first few days, it seemed to be. Their mark didn’t seem to have any idea he was being tailed and the agents on the ground quickly mapped his movements. He had a clear routine and by the third day, Clint had found a perch at the top of a building overlooking the mark’s office that kept him out of the wind and rain.

“ _Hawkeye, report_ ,” said Coulson’s voice, in his ear.

“No sign of him, boss,” Clint reported.

His handler had been especially professional since their talk in the hangar, and Clint had followed his lead. No jokes, no flirting, no unnecessary chatter, only the minimal level of communication needed to complete their mission.

The thing was, though, that Clint _liked_ Coulson. But not knowing where Coulson’s limits were was starting to make Clint nervous. Maybe his handler was too professional to lose his cool in the field, but Clint knew it was coming.

A sudden movement from the street below caught his attention. “Uh, boss?” he said, into his comm, “We got a problem.”

“ _What kind of problem?_ said Coulson.

“Our bad guy’s getting some company and I don’t think they’re here just to say hi.”

“ _Details, Barton._ ”

“It looks like the other gang,” said Clint. “I count six guys taking positions in the surrounding buildings, all heavily armed. I’m betting we wouldn’t mind if they take our guy out for us, but it looks like they don’t care about collateral damage.”

“ _Then we take him out first_ ,” said Coulson. “ _Do you have the shot?_ ”

He didn’t. The agents on street level had reported that the mark was in his office, and Clint didn’t have a line of sight from the roof. Their plan had been to wait until they guy left for lunch – he went to the same café up the street every day – but they didn’t have time for that. 

But there was a fire escape on the side of the building where Clint had his perch. It would put him in clear sight of the rival gang members, but he’d be able to take out the target through his office window.

“Give me a minute,” Clint told Coulson. 

The fire escape was clearly not used much – it was rusted in places and creaked ominously in others, but the noise of the street below was enough to cover the sound. On the second landing, half-hidden by the ladder to the level above, he had the right angle and a place to rest his fifle.

“Coulson,” said Clint, “I have the shot.”

“ _Take it_ ,” his handler said.

There was the muffled crack of the rifle firing, the distant crack of the window as the bullet created a neat hole in it, then a thump that Clint only imagined as the target collapsed to the floor of his office. Clint let out the breath he’d been holding – and ducked as a bullet hit the masonry behind him.

The metal of the fire escape shifted beneath his feet and Clint found firmer footing behind the ladder. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and drew his handgun when there was a sudden familiar whining noise and he had just enough time to scramble backwards before the rocket-propelled grenade exploded the brickwork into a shower of shrapnel.

“Taking fire!” he called, but didn’t have time to wait for an answer, too concerned with sliding down what remained of the fire escape. 

Clint hit the ground with a roll but didn’t have time to catch his breath – the top of the fire escape and a good portion of the building it had been attached to were coming down, twisted metal and chunks of brick tumbling toward him. There was a little alcove in the next building, one of those old service entrances, and Clint ducked inside. He curled into the corner and waited until the debris stopped falling.

As the last few bricks settled, Clint heard a few gunshots from further down the block, then everything was silent.

He straightened and looked around. Part of the fire escape had fallen across the entrance to the alcove, leaving only a small opening, and he cursed under his breath as he climbed carefully and _slowly_ through it. 

He was still making his way over a pile of crumbled brick when a voice shouted, “Barton!” 

It took Clint a full ten seconds to recognize the voice as Coulson’s – he’d never heard his handler sound afraid like that.

“Here, boss!” he called back, and immediately started coughing from inhaling brick dust.

Coulson came around the corner, gun at the ready, but lowered it again. “Barton,” he repeated.

“I’m fine,” Clint wheezed. “Just got a little—”

“What the hell were you thinking?” Coulson snapped. 

Now he sounded angry, and Clint frowned. He had made the shot. True, he’d moved his perch without letting Coulson know, but he’d done that before and Coulson had never gotten angry.

“I…” he began, but didn’t have any way to finish that sentence.

“Your comm went offline,” his handler continued. “And there was an explosion.”

“That wasn’t me,” Clint said, automatically.

“You could have been hurt,” snapped Coulson. “There was an explosion, you weren’t answering your comm and I—”

He broke off, and Clint blinked. “You were worried about me?”

“I…” Coulson said, then straightened his shoulders. “Yes, I was. We’ve worked together a long time, I consider us friends and I was… concerned.”

“You think we’re friends?” Clint said. He hadn’t meant to sound incredulous, and Coulson frowned.

“I do,” he said, slowly. “But if I’ve crossed a line, I apologize. You’ve made your feelings clear and I—”

“I was trying to find your limits,” interrupted Clint. When Coulson frowned at him again, he added, “How annoying I have to be before somebody gets mad at me. I know Sitwell’s limits, and Hill’s and Woo’s, but you… you never got mad.”

“I don’t, as a rule,” Coulson said, still speaking slowly. “I try to maintain a professional demeanor at work. But honestly, you’ve never annoyed me.”

“ _Never?_ ,” Clint repeated, incredulous again.

His handler paused, considering not hesitant. “No,” he said. “You don’t let your attention wander, even if your commentary is irrelevant to the mission. When silence is needed, you can stay quiet. When you started acting erratically, I was worried – I thought something was wrong, and I was hoping you’d have trusted me to help.”

“I do!” said Clint, quickly. “But I couldn’t ask you to help figure out _you_ ”

“You could have,” Coulson said, smiling.

Clint smiled back. “At least I finally found out what gets you mad.”

The other man frowned again. “Yes, you did. Taking a risk like that…”

“How was I supposed to know they had rocket launchers?” Clint protested. “The fire escape was a little rickety, but stable. The ladder was pretty good cover. After I took the shot, I was going to head back up to the roof, but then… Must have knocked my comm out, but I promise I’m all right.”

“Okay,” said Coulson.

“Okay?” repeated Clint.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m still mad. You take too many risks.”

“And you worry.”

Coulson smiled again. “And I worry. Because we’re friends.”

“Friends,” Clint repeated. “So… when we’re back on base, if I stopped by your office sometime…?”

“I’d like that.”

“Cool.”

Coulson smiled. “We should—”

“What the hell are you two doing?” interrupted Sitwell, jogging into the debris-filled alley. “Barton, why aren’t you dead?”

“Hi, Agent Sitwell,” said Clint, with his fakest smile. “Were you looking for us?”

As they followed Sitwell back onto the street, Clint could see the smile Coulson was trying to hide, and he suddenly had a new mission –he wanted to see that smile as often as he could.

THE END


End file.
